


Humanesque

by Poplitealqueen



Category: DCU, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Bruce has trouble with emotions and Clark has too many, Courtesy of the lovely Poison Ivy, I mean yeah they make out in chapter one, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sex Pollen, Slow Burn, SuperBat, but that does not count that is just a sneaky peeky, justice league - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-11-14 16:38:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18056174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poplitealqueen/pseuds/Poplitealqueen
Summary: Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne are two very different people that might have just discovered they have a thing for one another. Something more than just superhero camaraderie that comes from saving the world on a daily basis together.Problem is, they're both kind of awful at this sort of thing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has been in the works for a good while, and has undergone a bit of a transformation/mutation as it has sat stewing in the depths of my drafts folder. Example: I started rewatching Young Justice (STILL so excited that it Season 3 is a thing) while I had this percolating fic in my mind, and I thought "What could make this Superbat fic even better?" And the answer was super-powered teenagers in the peanut gallery.
> 
> It won't be directly connected to it, mind you. Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Lewd Fic, right? Heh. But it'll be here in the background.
> 
> Anywhomst. Please enjoy!

The doors of the elevator down into the Batcave snapped shut like the jaws of a great beast swallowing them whole with one fervent gulp, and as it began to descend Bruce Wayne unclipped his cape and cowl. The dark material made a surprisingly loud thump when it hit the mesh metal floor, and Clark Kent had only a moment to remember Bruce just made wearing pounds of kevlar and lyra look easy for a human when the man in question was upon him.  
  
Let it not be said that Bruce Wayne is a coward. A fool, perhaps, to take someone that could snap him in half with one hand by surprise, but never a coward.  
  
His lips were warm and chapped, crusted with dried blood from a half-healed split in the skin. They didn't taste like anything Clark could name, yet there were delicious against his own. Even with the faint, tangy aroma of Poison Ivy's latest concoction drifting from his pours, that gave his saliva a subtle sharp burn, made it any less awful.  
  
He veered to the side just enough to keep Bruce's hand from wrapping itself over his crotch.  
  
Clark pushed him away with no small amount of regret. Bruce's entire body was radiating heat and need, his face flushed and breath coming out interspersed with small, desperate groans. Wanton sounds that did things to Clark which made him regret ever deciding the Superman costume should be nothing but a layer of tights.  
  
As if Bruce could read his mind, and sometimes Clark genuinely wondered if he could, his hazy eyes skated down until they zeroed in on Clark's crotch. A smile bloomed on his face, one so relaxed that it caught Clark off guard more than the kiss a few moments before had. Bruce Wayne didn't smile. He smirked, he scowled, in the facade of the billionaire playboy he pasted on something as fake and painful as whatever had stretched apart the Joker's mouth to that grotesque grin, but he never just *smiled*.  
  
"Let me help with that," Bruce said with a sway of his body that turned into squirming. Clark locked his hands down tight, careful not to break any bones beneath the body armor.  
  
"No."  
  
"Why not?" Bruce whined petulantly, again something that Clark wouldn't have thought remotely possible. The reporter in him reared their head, insisting that if Poison Ivy's latest concoction wasn't likely killing Bruce as quickly as it made him ready to tear both their clothes off, he would be filming this. Clark pushed the thought down and out of sight.  
  
"You're not yourself," he insisted.  
  
Bruce raised both eyebrows then nodded in understanding, the movement causing him to stumble a bit before Clark steadied him. "You want me to put the cowl back on first."  
  
_"No!"_  
  
After that yelp of a word, Clark cleared his throat.  
  
"No," he repeated, calmer. "Bruce, I'm taking you to the Batcave so Alfred can administer the serum for Ivy's toxin."  
  
Bruce blinked slowly, a faint hint of recognition glinting in his fogged up eyes. This was immediately followed by a thigh rubbing itself slyly between Clark's legs, eliciting a gasp and a squeal of metal as Clark left finger indents in Bruce's shoulder plates.  
  
"Then we can head up to the Manor for some alone time, can't we?"  
  
"Bruce--"  
  
Thankfully, the elevator doors slid open at that moment. Without hesitation, Clark scooped Bruce up in his arms and flew them both the rest of the way to the makeshift infirmary of the vast cave. Bruce's butler was standing by, arms behind his back and eyes curious behind his glasses. When they landed, Alfred's eyes widened. Specifically at the way Bruce had begun to nibble and suck at a bare section of Clark's throat.  
  
"What..."  
  
Clark craned his neck away, but Bruce followed it like a puppy after a treat. "We're gonna need to restrain him.  
  
Though the look of surprise didn't leave him, Alfred sprang into professional action. "Right over here, sir. Place him flat, and -- yes, there we are. I have his ankles, you get his arms. Thank you."  
  
A few minutes later and Bruce was secure on an expensive gurney, wrists and ankles held down by thick curves of steel. A vitals machine beeped erratically nearby. His back arched, sweat pouring down his brow, and he was still focusing on solely on Clark. His face had taken on a more desperate look than the one in the elevator. One of barely checked pain. Alfred stepped forward with a syringe that looked longer than his forearm. Clear liquid swirled within as he rid it of air bubbles.  
  
"Hold still, Master Bruce."  
  
Bruce thrashed instead.  
  
"Please. Clark, please...I need--" . The vitals machine exploded into a shrill cacophony, and Alfred backed away. He let out a sigh, and locked eyes with Clark. He looked apologetic. The reason why became apparent when he asked, "Sir...could you please distract him while I apply his medicine?"  
  
Clark hoped he wasn't blushing. Superman didn't blush. He nodded resolutely, like he was going off to war. "Of course."  
  
As soon as he had leaned in close enough that Bruce could reach him with his mouth again, the vitals machine had quieted to a soft sussurus. He kissed Bruce back this time, one hand on his cheek and the other striking through his hair. Bruce barely even registered the long needle sinking into his neck, followed by Alfred whispering, "It's done."  
  
Clark continued to kiss Bruce a few moments longer. It was strange, but this didn't feel like Poison Ivy's work. This felt like something right, something that *he* needed too.  
  
_Oh, no._  
  
When he finally lifted his face away, Bruce's lips were swollen and his eyelids were drooping like he was in the throes of post-coital bliss. "Thank you..." he said, soft as a breath. Then his eyes closed completely and he relaxed back onto the metal.  
  
"I included a sedative," Alfred explained. "He needed the sleep anyway."  
  
Clark nodded, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. Alfred cocked his head to the side, a motion that the Batman did all the time. That made Clark smile.  
  
"Would you care for some tea while we wait for him to wake up?"  
  
Clark shook his head, mine awash with too many things. Nearly all of them Bruce Wayne related. "Ah, no. Thank you. I have to--um..." he lifted himself up into the air. "Get back to Metropolis. Let me know if you need me."  
  
"I shall," Alfred said with a small wave, and Clark was gone in a flash of red and blue.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a firm believer that Bruce Wayne is a tea man. Alfred might have disowned him otherwise.

It took half a day for Clark to hear from Bruce, and two more days before Clark responded. He'd needed time to think, and the Metropolis criminal underbelly had given him just that. But this wasn't Gotham, and inevitably he found himself in his apartment with time to spare, now news of potential world ending catastrophes from the League that needed seeing to, and a terse message on his machine from a certain billionaire: "We need to talk. Today."  
  
Clark steeled himself as he cleared it off the machine and got ready to leave. He'd come to a conclusion, one that scared him as much as it excited him. Yes, they really did need to talk.  
  
Dawn was just beginning to peek over the jagged Gotham City skyline in an array of pastel pinks and reds when Clark landed in the back garden of Wayne Manor. Forest might have been a proper term for it in his opinion, with enough hedges and trees to get lost in, but who was he to judge?  
  
Clark found Bruce sitting at a glass table on a patio reaching out from the mansion to the forest-sized garden. His batsuit had been replaced by pressed slacks and a dress shirt buttoned to his Adam's apple. He had a digital pad in one hand, and a porcelain cup of what smelled like chamomile (though Clark's references were few and far between, since Smallville and Metropolis both ran on coffee bitter enough to make a Kryptonian wince) gripped by its thin stem with two fingers. He looked tired, but that was perpetual. Clark often wondered if Bruce ever actually slept of his own accord.  
  
Clark landed a few feet away, sneakers flattening a small patch of the perfectly mowed emerald grass, and offered a small wave which Bruce didn't see. "Hey."  
  
"You're not in costume."  
  
Clark shrugged, which Bruce _also_ didn't look up to see, and walked over to where Bruce sat. Grass gave way to smooth tile. "I don't like Metropolis to know every time I'm gone."  
  
Bruce mmmed into his cup as he tipped it back into his mouth. He set it back in its saucer, and still without looking up from what he was reading said, "I'm sorry."  
  
Clark folded his arms over his chest, hiding his own dismay. Bruce Wayne didn't apologize; it was more rare to see him actually smile. "For?"  
  
Bruce finally did look up at that, mostly to rake over Clark with a half-lidded glare for not seeing the apparently obvious. He gestured in the dewy dawn air. "For what happened Monday night. I..." he huffed, and set the pad down. Glancing over, Clark saw what appeared to be a CCTV camera feed from within a very familiar elevator. He felt his cheeks burn despite the cold morning air at the face his recording made when Bruce suprised him with that first kiss. Bruce, meanwhile, didn't appear bothered at all. He let it play out until the elevator doors slid open, then tapped the pause button with one finger. His face was as stony and unreadable as ever.  
  
"That." Bruce said, clinically. Like a doctor listing the symptom of some grievous illness.  
  
Clark's better side won out, the one that his Pa always insisted would get him into trouble. "It wasn't your fault," he responded delicately. "I would have been me if you hadn't gotten in way of Ivy's attack."  
  
"I'm always in control of myself," Bruce persisted, a disgusted curve to his lips. "I wasn't then, and I hurt you."  
  
Clark cracked a small smirk and gestured at himself. "I'm invincible, remember? I'm pretty sure I could have stopped you if things went too far."  
  
Bruce didn't smile back. "You know what I mean, Clark."  
  
All that made Bruce Wayne who he was centered on a set of carefully-maintained controls; walls to keep him from falling into the darkness all around him, and becoming everything he fought against. Yes, Clark understood it. That didn't mean he agreed with Bruce flaying himself open every time he made an honest, human mistake. Not even Clark did that, and he didn't exactly have the "I'm Only Human" card to fall back on.  
  
"You weren't in control of yourself, and I--" Clark looked down at the warped glass of the table. "Well. I need to talk to you about something."  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"Those feelings. Were they...did they come from somewhere truthful?"  
  
"What does it matter?"  
  
Clark felt a spike of frustration at Bruce's blase attitude. He'd been wrestling with this for days, and all Bruce could offer was a 'What does it matter?' No.

"Everything," Clark said, laying his palms flat on the table and staring Bruce down. "I didn't see you trying to get into Alfred's pants--"

Bruce made a face. "Ew."  
  
"--but you did with me. Why?" He went a step further, hoping with everything he had that he didn't sound as throat-crushingly nervous as he felt. "Do you feel something for me?"  
  
Bruce took a long time to respond. The sky went from pink to pale blue above them. "I don't know," he finally admitted, voice soft and uncharacteristically uncertain. His stormy eyes were a tempest when he looked up at Clark. "I really don't know, and if you hate me for that then I wouldn't blame you."  
  
"I don't hate you, or blame you," Clark sighed, tugging the short curls on the back of his neck. "How about I put it like this instead?" He leaned over the table until there was only a thin strip of air betweenbl them   
  
Bruce's eyes widened at the proximity, but Clark noted that he didn't back away. That alone spoke volumes. "You kissed me without my consent. The least you can do is take me on a date to make up for it."  
  
Bruce blinked, dumbfounded. "I...uh... wait, what? Date?"  
  
Clark smiled. "You heard me, Wayne. You're a man of action, aren't you?"  
  
"Like an-- a real, actual date?"  
  
"What other kind is there?"  
  
Bruce cleared his throat into his fist, and adopted a business demeanor. "I agree to you terms," he said. "Where do you want to go?"  
  
"Dinner. Somewhere nice, call me when you know where, and no tights or body armor. Just regular clothes. How does Friday night sound?"  
  
"Fine."  
  
Clark couldn't tell what Bruce was feeling at the moment. He had closed up completely, his face an unreadable slate. Even his heartrate didn't betray anything more than a slight quickening, and that could be due to anything. Maybe Clark had just royally pissed him off, but if he had Bruce would have simply denied the proposition.  
  
He decided to have a bit of hope. It was something he was good at inspiring in others, or so he was always told. Perhaps he could inspire a bit in himself now.


End file.
